


silver dawn

by elrohir



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celebrimbor Just Wants to be Left Alone, Coming of Age, Curufin Has Daddy Issues, Finrod Has a Death Wish, Gen, The Fall of Nargothrond, The Oath of Feanor, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018, difficult conversations, family ties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 18:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrohir/pseuds/elrohir
Summary: “Ingoldo is a fool,” Curufin hissed, “throwing himself at the Enemy like a sweet morsel ripe for the taking. I will not be devoured.”“Finrod has no choice. You have trapped him between Sauron and yourself, and I cannot say in truth which one is worse.”Celebrimbor, coming of age, and the Fall of Nargothrond.





	silver dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written to complement a beautiful creation by James (celcbrimbor on tumblr) for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018. It was a privilege getting to explore Celebrimbor's character and wonder why he made the choices he did, especially when surrounded by so many influences contrary to the ideals he seems to exhibit in Eregion during the Second Age. Though to the best of my knowledge Celebrimbor is not mentioned in the published Silmarillion during the Fall of Nargothrond, I see no reason why he could not have been present there at that time.

 

(Moodboard by [James](http://tyelperiinquar.tumblr.com))

...

“Father, I cannot stand idly by while you march Finrod to his death.”

The red light of the armory dyed his father’s golden mail bright in fire. Celebrimbor stood in the entrance-way, armored likewise but unarmed. Curufin did not look up from the rack of swords he was inspecting on the wall and responded curtly. “Why?”

“Finrod is my friend, and his loss is a death-spell for Nargothrond.”

Curufin tried a blade in his hands, testing the balance. Centuries of experience with the sword showed easily in the way he handled it like an extension of his arm, graceful savagery masked by deadly skill. “Do not get involved in matters which do not concern you, Tyelpe.”

Celebrimbor crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “I have every right to speak; I did not swear your Oath. I am not bound in your quest to pursue Luthien and her Silmaril. Do not think that I cannot discern what you are planning,” he added more quietly, more seriously. “You and Tyelkormo set yourselves up for Mandos, not the throne of Nargothrond.”

Curufin laughed, a harsh barking noise. His laugh had always reminded Celebrimbor of Celegorm’s dogs.

His voice, however, was smooth as molten silver. “No, Tyelpe. _Findarato_ plans to martyr himself at Morgoth’s lieutenant’s hands. His crown is gone and he has nothing. As for myself? I think not.”

He grinned at Celebrimbor, sharp and white, then turned back to the rack of swords. “Findarato will do all the fighting, and then we will be there at the end, his crown and Silmaril in our hands for the taking.”

Celebrimbor could not read his father’s expression in the dim light, but he knew from how he spoke the fierce way his eyes would be blazing.

“Since when has a prince as proud as Curufin resorted to such underhanded tactics? It is orcs’ game to take what they have not duly earned.”

Curufin turned around to face him fully, heavy black cloak swirling at his feet. “You accuse me of underhandedness? Of sneaking around like a thief in the night? I am doing no such thing.”

He pointed the sword in his hand at Celebrimbor, the ruby set in the hilt bright like the fire in his eyes. The dark blade gleamed wickedly; Celebrimbor maintained a calm expression. 

“Ingoldo is a fool,” Curufin hissed, “throwing himself at the Enemy like a sweet morsel ripe for the taking. I will _not_ be devoured.”

“Finrod has no _choice_. You have trapped him between Sauron and yourself, and I cannot say in truth which one is worse.”

Curufin bristled at Celebrimbor’s accusation. “Do _not_ compare me to that bedeviled necromancer. You know not the weight of your words.”

He waved his sword wildly, and Celebrimbor stepped back as far as the narrow armory would allow him. He bumped into a shelf of helmets; they rattled and threatened to fall.

“Father,” he said with all the calm he could muster, though his voice quavered. “lower your sword.”

Curufin seemed not to hear him.

“Better I reap the spoils of Finrod’s folly than the Enemy, in any case,” Curufin muttered to himself, almost an afterthought. Celebrimbor did not avert his gaze from the blade.

“Father!”

Celebrimbor’s outburst seemed to break Curufin from his stupor. Curufin looked down at the dark length of his blade, expression mildly shocked. He put it back on the rack.

“My son, I am sorry,” he said quickly—almost frenetically. “I did not mean to startle you. You know I only want what is best for you.”

He paused, then glanced at Celebrimbor up and down, taking in his battle-ready state. The armor he wore had been forged by Celebrimbor under Curufin’s tutelage perhaps three centuries past. Its intricate patterns masked a greater durability; it was both a work of art and a work of war.

“You are wasted here in Nargothrond,” Curufin said, almost to himself, tone growing earnest. “You will wither, untested, unchallenged. Your prowess in smith-work is destined for greater things than these wretched caves.”

Stepping forward, he put a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. Celebrimbor did his best not to flinch under the intensity of his stare. “Curufinwe. My son.” 

His father’s eyes, bright and grey like tempered steel, locked onto Celebrimbor’s gaze and did not let it go. Even through the stiff pauldron which armored his shoulder, the grip of Curufin’s fingers was almost too strong for comfort.

“My son. If you ever loved me, do not abandon me at my hour of need.”

“To yield to you is to sentence Finrod’s people to death. I will be no Kinslayer,” Celebrimbor said, voice flat. He shook off Curufin’s hand and stepped out of the armory, putting distance between himself and his father.

“I only do what is necessary,” Curufin spat, incensed. His eyes narrowed into slits. “The lives lost at Alqualonde—”

“I do not speak of Alqualonde—”

“— those lives were necessary sacrifices to make the freedom of Middle-earth available to others of our kind.”

“Father—”

“It was _right_ for Olwe’s people to die for keeping that freedom from us.”

Celebrimbor froze, shocked into momentary silence. “Father, you go too far. Do you not hear what you are saying?”

“You are the one who cannot see the glory of our cause, my son.”

Curufin was no longer seeing reason. All of the fight left Celebrimbor’s body; he made to leave the armory. Curufin stuck out his arm to block him, and he stopped in his tracks. Flint glinted in his father’s eyes. Celebrimbor’s back hit the wall; he grit his teeth against the shrill scrape of metal and stone.

 

“I have spent centuries molding you into one that my father could be proud of. You could never rival him in grandeur, but even your mother could see that you had his fire.”

Celebrimbor blinked. He had not known that his mother ever thought that of him.

Curufin continued, his hand braced on the wall by Celebrimbor’s shoulder. The gold of the Feanorian star on his breast flickered red in the light of the elven-lamp hanging from the ceiling.

“My father was the greatest of our house. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to achieve half of what he did? What I’ve sacrificed? The choices I’ve had to make so that you could have a _sliver_ of a chance of living up to our family’s legacy?”

Curufin sneered, his thin lips curling unpleasantly. “I’m insulted that you would toss aside all that we’ve worked for simply because an _Arafinwean_ means more to you than the legacy of your line.”

Celebrimbor’s insides grew cold. “You cannot believe that the only reason I will not follow you in mad pursuit of a Silmaril is because I am siding with Finrod.”

Curufin paid his words no heed, and continued speaking. His breath was hot on Celebrimbor’s face. 

“To protect Finrod will be your death. And if you cannot see that much, Telperinquar—if you will not submit to me—then do not call yourself my son.”

He dropped his arm; Celebrimbor’s pulse pounded in his ears. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but Curufin cut him off.

“Either you acquiesce to my wishes or no. Make your choice, but ponder hard if the path you walk is right.”

He left Celebrimbor there, reeling. The heavy door shut behind him with a great boom, and the armory fell silent save for the drumbeat of Celebrimbor’s heart.

…

His father would cut him off over a Silmaril.

He felt as if he had been doused with cold water. Bracing his body on the rough-hewn stone of the wall, he clenched his hands into fists; the tough parts of his gloves dug into his skin.

_My father would disown me for a Silmaril_. His mind could not work itself around that fact. He forced his breathing to remain regular, but his heart threatened to burst his ribcage. 

He could not forsake Nargothrond while the city still staggered in the wake of Finrod’s abdication. He likewise could not stand idly by while his father fell to the darkness of his own designs, taking an entire people down with him. _Not that anything, though, could ever veer Curufin off the path he had chosen once he set his mind._

To defer to Curufin was to forsake his own ideals, but to fight back was to renounce his house and his identity as a son of Feanor’s line. He would be houseless and fatherless; none of the powers in Beleriand would ally themselves to a failed ex-Feanorian.

He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, letting the cool air of the depths of Nargothrond’s caverns fill his lungs and calm his spirit. 

He had no one to turn to for counsel. Celegorm’s advice could not be trusted; he would certainly side with Curufin.

He was alone.

He glanced up and down the hall. His father showed no sign of returning to the armory—not that Celebrimbor would have anything kind to say to him if he did. He closed his eyes again.

Seconds slipped by into minutes, and he knew not how long he sat against the wall, overwhelmed in the implications of the turn events had taken since that morning.

He heard footsteps down the hallway and stood up from the floor, blinking. Finrod strode towards the armory, satchel under his arm and expression uncharacteristically grave. He seemed to notice Celebrimbor and raised a hand in greeting, stopping in front of the armory door to catch his breath.

“Telperinquar! There you are. I have been searching up and down your usual haunts to find you. I wished to speak with you before I depart.”

“It is rare to see you so grim-faced, cousin,” said Celebrimbor.

“Today has been a grim day. I have given up my crown, Curvo and Tyelkormo intend mutiny, and now I must leave on the hour for a quest to win a Silmaril for Thingol of Doriath! Nargothrond has lay hidden all these quiet years, but I fear our deeds today will reveal her ere long.”

“I am saddened to hear that you are leaving, though it is a comfort to know I am not alone in my woes.”

Finrod slung his satchel over his shoulder and gestured for Celebrimbor to walk beside him.

“I am heading for Nargothrond’s front gate. Your father is in a dark mood; he stormed past me as if a company of orcs pursued him.”

“That would be my doing.”

Finrod studied him with an odd expression. For a moment the only sound between them was the echo of their bootfalls in the stone passageway.

“These are ill times, Telperinquar,” he said. “I do not know what transpired between you and Curufin, but a shadow clearly lies on your heart. I have no special merit of my own any longer, but I can offer the listening ear of a friend.”

Celebrimbor smiled wearily. “Your advice would be most welcome.”

“What troubles you, kinsman?”

“Perhaps not kinsman for much longer, I’m afraid,” Celebrimbor said. “My father plans to disown me if I continue to speak against his plan to usurp your throne.”

Finrod raised his eyebrows.

“And will you yield to him?” he asked. His tone was soft, but a subtle sharp note lingered in the air. 

Celebrimbor studied the carven motif that adorned the walls of the passage as they walked, unsure of how to voice his thoughts.

“I despise myself for the uncertainty in my heart, but in truth I am torn,” he began falteringly after a moment. “I should not hesitate in sacrificing myself to defend you and the people of your city, but he is my father, and my only blood tie on this side of the Sea to my kin. But my heart cannot in good faith go along complacently with his demands. I am not Oath-bound as he, and wish not to live as such. He destroys our tie of kinship along with the city. Nargothrond will never be able to openly assault the Enemy now that she might be revealed; her people are condemned to skulk underground and face friend and foe alike with hostility.”

“I regret that this news came to me on the very eve of my departure!” cried Finrod bitterly. “But though I have a part in the struggle in your heart, I am glad you came to me with it. Your tidings are not all ill, I think. Nargothrond may be fallen in glory, but those of her people who remain loyal are resilient, and Orodreth is made of an uncommon stalwart strength. Curufin has not won yet.”

“That eases some of my fears, although thoughts of my father still disturb my spirit. I am unwilling to side with him, but I do not want to give him up. He seems eager to get rid of me, though.”

They walked in silence for a span as Finrod mused. Celebrimbor did not speak. As they entered the wide principal hallway which lead to the main gate of the city, Finrod began again. “Curufin is proud, as was his father before him. He places a high value on his identity as a son of Feanor, and though he does not show it, he has the same high pride in you. You are Curufinwe, son of Curufinwe, son of Curufinwe, the bright young jewel of the high house of Feanor!”

Celebrimbor’s breath caught, and Finrod gave him a smile. “Curufin’s hopes are high in you. You did not swear the Oath he did, and thus possess a freedom he does not. You could achieve greater things than he is even capable of imagining.”

Celebrimbor breathed out heavily through his nose. “His expectations of me blind him, and he cannot see past them to who I truly am. He has rationalized the misdeeds of he and his brothers, and no longer sees them in their horrible entirety. The Silmarils mean more to him than all the lives in Arda, and he has forgotten what it means to be called _Kinslayer_.”

“And therein lies his failing. You indeed have lived up to the legacy of his father’s skilled house in many great ways, but those corrupted gems have blighted his heart.”

Celebrimbor shivered, though not from the cold.

“The trespasses of my father are not mine,” he said, ”but it seems I cannot be free of them without forsaking my name entirely. I love my father dearly. Perhaps the person he has become is not who I once knew in Valinor, but surely he cannot be lost completely.”

Finrod pondered thoughtfully for a while, weighing his words. Celebrimbor fiddled with the lacings on his gloves, reluctant to break the silence.

“Mandos’ doom has a way of hooking its gnarled claws in even the best parts of those whom it afflicts. He may not even realize that his love for you—for deep inside he loves you fiercely—can be expressed through means other than control.”

Finrod spoke earnestly, and Celebrimbor’s chest clenched.

“Perhaps he does not want you to submit to him so that his cause might be furthered, though that may be what he says aloud. You are the dear work of his heart and his greatest creation. He wishes to keep you close that he might protect you, but his Doom keeps him from expressing that sentiment in truth.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes grew hot and he blinked. He tried for a brief moment to keep a strong face in front of Finrod, but the attempt was futile. Tears uncalled-for pooled in his eyes, and he grit his teeth.

“I do not want to forsake him when he might yet be redeemed.”

The words came out more hoarsely than he intended. His face felt hot and blotchy; he wiped his nose with his sleeve. Finrod took his hands and squeezed them companionably. “Impossible choices are our lot as those who have forsworn Aman, though I mourn with you that what you have at stake is so dear to your heart.”

“No matter what he says, he is still my father.”

“When my father Finarfin elected to remain in Aman after the Kinslaying in Alqualonde, I chose to press on rather than stay with him. Just because our paths diverged does not mean mine was wrong. Sometimes you do not realize how much you value a thing until you lose it.”

Finrod’s hand gently squeezed his shoulder. 

“It is fine to mourn,” he said softly, without looking at Celebrimbor. “Tears are not weakness. It is strength, not submission, to mourn what you once shared, for your bond was deeper than many.”

Celebrimbor felt Finrod’s hand tremble. “Even I was his friend, once. A sea and an age away, perhaps, but it is not just your heart that burns within you this hour for Curufin’s fall.”

Celebrimbor and Finrod arrived at the front gates of Nargothrond. They lay open a crack, and just outside them Celebrimbor could see the silhouette of the mortal Man Beren. Stars glittered in the sky above.

“And now I must face the consequences of my own impossible choice, whether they be good or ill,” said Finrod, the lightness in his tone masking a deeper sadness. “My heart is at peace knowing that I fulfill my vow to Barahir, but my mind is troubled knowing that I must leave my city at a time of such turmoil, though she lies in capable hands. I do not know if I will ever return to this place.”

Celebrimbor looked him over. He seemed strangely plain without his crown or kingly robes; Finrod was clad in a simple tunic for travel and light leather armor. A green cloak lay clasped over his chest, and Barahir’s ring gleamed on one of his long fingers, but he was otherwise unadorned.

“Felagund, we must depart,” said Beren at his side. His Mannish accent fell unfamiliarly on Celebrimbor’s ears.

Finrod sighed softly, then smiled. “Indeed we must.”

He turned to Celebrimbor one last time. “Cousin, know that I depart from you in friendship. I have confidence that the choice you make will be the one truest to yourself. Do not be afraid to do what is right.”

“And you likewise,” replied Celebrimbor. “Do not let thoughts of what you leave behind daunt your spirit. The path you follow may have a greater purpose than you can see.”

They embraced, then Finrod and Beren departed. Celebrimbor watched Finrod’s back until he passed out of sight and into shadow, then turned around. He never saw him again on that side of the Sea.

…

Curufin stood with Celegorm on the wet bank of the Narog just outside Nargothrond’s gates. Celebrimbor stood with his back to the city, facing his father. The chill wind coming off the high country of Taur-en-Faroth threatened to wrestle their cloaks away from them.

“So you have made your choice, I see,” said Curufin.

“I will not let this city fall to your designs.”

“You are a fool. You know not what you lose.”

“I hope that you realize what _you_ lose today—a son and your dignity.”

Curufin lifted his chin imperiously while Celegorm observed their exchange, lips pulled back in a crafty smirk. 

“It seems your son has finally grown up, brother,” he said.

“Silence, Tyelko!” Curufin snapped.

Celebrimbor pressed on. “Father, I love you. You were great once, though by your actions you have shown me that you are fallen in glory. I have made my choice. I will not forsake Nargothrond, nor myself.”

“You are a foolish boy beguiled by high notions of idealism.”

“Do not for a _second_ assume that my youth implies ignorance. I have experienced the horrors of this broken world just the same as you, and have been treated no more kindly. Father, I love you, and so I must let you go.”

His eyes pricked and he blinked. Curufin watched him closely, his mouth a hard line, but Celebrimbor continued speaking. Grief colored his voice.

“It breaks my heart to see what you have become, Curufinwe, and it torments me even more to know that I cannot save you. You have fallen beyond my reach. Though it may not be by me, perhaps one day you be redeemed—that is my hope.”

Something shifted in Curufin’s face, and for a moment an unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes. The brief display of vulnerability was quickly replaced by cold indifference, however, as Curufin crossed his arms and looked down upon Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor braced himself for the hard words he knew were coming. 

“I have heard your case, Tyelperinquar, and my terms remain unchanged. I banish thee from my house. I have no kinship with thee.”

Celebrimbor’s chest felt hollow, but he steeled himself. He would not show weakness before Curufin.

“I revoke thy name,” Curufin spat. “Do not show before me your face again, o Noldo.”

Curufin pushed his way past Celebrimbor and stalked back inside the city. Celebrimbor’s gaze followed his retreating figure, the roar of the river Narog drowning out any last words he might have said. His face felt wet, though from tears or spray from the river he did not know. He did not care.

 

Though their bond may have been broken in word, a few cutting remarks could not hew down a relationship whose roots ran millennia deep. He sighed bitterly. Celebrimbor’s stomach tied itself into knots and he breathed in deeply to relieve the tension in his mind. He was unsure of what his next step would be.

 

“You have Feanor’s fire, boy. I’m sorry Curvo’s losing you, ” Celegorm remarked from behind him, jolting him out of his thoughts. His bright armor shone brilliantly in the morning sun, and his golden hair was tied back in an intricate braid.

“Look at you, garbed in false glory,” accused Celebrimbor. “On the surface you are fair-seeming but inside you are a snake. You and Curufin have sent Finrod to his death and leave his city scrambling to pick up the scattered pieces of what you have broken.”

“Oh, I am completely aware of my own villainy.”

Celegorm scoffed darkly at his own words and Celebrimbor watched him, incredulous. “I’m just as bad as Curufin, don’t get me wrong. But before you dismiss me completely, hear what I have to say. Then I will leave you be.”

A little bit startled, Celebrimbor found himself nodding, unsure of how to react. “Speak your piece.”

Celegorm looked him in the eye, suddenly more serious than Celebrimbor had ever seen him. His sobriety was frightening.

“You are my brother’s dearest work,” said Celegorm, frankly. “You are wonderfully wrought, the best part of himself. That he is giving you up shows how greatly our Oath has warped his mind. I fear only Mandos can cure him now, and it breaks my heart as much as it does yours.”

He looked off to the side, watching the river for a moment. “I’m telling you these things mostly to alleviate my own guilty conscience. Don’t mistake me. But.”

He met his eyes again, his voice low. “But do not regret your choice. I have never seen my brother so broken as I did last night. Though it may take a millennium in Namo’s halls, there is hope for him yet. Take heart! Though my doom is the same as his, go forth glad knowing that his transgressions have not tainted you.”

He paused for a moment, carefully considering his next words. “Not all of Feanor’s line is fallen.”

With that, Celegorm flashed a feral smile, showing too many teeth. He turned on his heel and was gone, swift as a cat. The gates of Nargothrond shut behind him with a resounding, final boom. A little dazed, Celebrimbor, still outside, turned to face their carven stone.

 

_Not all of Feanor’s line is fallen._

Though his mind still reeled, an unexpected relief washed over him like a flood. He opened his hands in front of him, palms up, and studied them. _Tyelperinquar—silver grasp._

“I belong to no one but myself,” he said aloud. A strange anticipation filled his chest. “ _Curufinwe_ I am no longer, so I am free to make my own name in the world.”

 

The morning sun blazed above him in the cloudless sky. It burned his eyes and yet he laughed breathlessly, grinning. He felt curiously buoyant, as if a burden he had been shouldering was suddenly lifted from his back.

_Fatherless I may be, but that sets me free._

He looked up at Nargothrond's grand gates, studying their intricacies. 

"I have work to do."


End file.
